Suffocate

The guard stood inside the door this time, hands linked by his groin, silent and unmoving. He was just here to press the button if need be. To avoid outbursts, violent ones which were common now, a large dose of sleeping syrup was ready to be flushed into the blood stream of the detainee.

The detainee was an odd term to describe him. He hadn’t truly done anything, not in the long run, not when compared to others. He’d hardly killed anyone, even when put in that situation. He’d killed to survive, like we all had. But never to the same amount, not close to the same number of souls.

What happened to him in the Capitol, before the games, during and after was not his fault. Everyone said that but yet everyone was treating him like a criminal. Was I any better? I’d only come here when told too, not that I hadn’t asked a few times but surely if I was so bothered I would have pushed harder. I should have pushed harder.

He looked a little better, weight on his bones, his cheek less gaunt. He was pale still, we all were, considering natural light was so hard to come by. But his skin was waxy, almost glimmering with a sheen of sweat. We weren’t eating this time; he’d reacted badly to Haymitch lately, although not about Katniss, he was just angry at being lied too. The chain along the handcuffs rattles as he leant forward a little, warily eyeing the false mirror behind me.

“You look tired.” I exhale through my nose, almost a laugh.

“So do you.” He seems to relax and leans back against his seat. I copy his movement, several doctors had told me to make him as a comfortable, mimic his simple actions, give him a sense of imitation.Apparently that would be positive, build a sense of a link between us.

We had a link. We had the arena and six weeks of a link. Not that we would speak about it, they didn’t want me too. I didn’t want too. Peeta seemed to have other ideas and after a few more pointless comments, during which he kept calm he started asking. “I had a dream last night about a woman. I don’t...she had purple hair, long but all knotted with little plaits and...” His gaze catches mine now, almost fearful. I swallow hard, I know exactly who he means and I’ve tried desperately to keep the memory from my head for weeks. Their deaths are clearest for me, the rest of the time there is the blur, the ‘shiny’ images as Peeta describes. Patches of the arena are tainted the same way. But the deaths are perfectly clear, like a film, frame by frame I can see it.

“I’m right aren’t I...she was there.” I nod slowly, tugging my eyes from his and down to the table, glinting.

“Her name was Blithe. They brought her and Margy in...”

“Blithe.” It’s like he’s tasting the word. “I didn’t know Blithe?”

“No.” I still avoid looking at him, “She was part of my prep team, they both were.”

“They killed mine the night we escaped, and Portia...my stylist.” I recognise the name and nod at his uncertainty, “Because we escaped.” His teeth nip his lower lip, “...live, so everyone would see...on a stage...”

“Because we escaped.” I repeat lowly, “But that’s not why they killed the others.” He waits for me to continue, “They didn’t ask us anything then, it wasn’t to find anything out. They knew everything we knew it...it...” My throat's thick and I hate him for bringing it up. I hate him for even making me think about it again.

“They did it so we’d see it. Didn’t they?”

“Y...yeah.”

“Why?” He’s agitated now, hands clenching into fists, “Why, why would they do that?”

“I don’t know Peeta.” That’s a lie. I know exactly what terror and brutality they were trying to show, to let us know how little they valued human life. Our lives. It had been another step in damaging both of our psyches. His fingers tap on the table, an odd little fierce song that seems to calm him slightly. “I wasn’t supposed to say anything to upset you.” I finally look properly at him.

“You haven’t said anything to upset me.” He has but I can hardly be mad, he makes less sense of it than anybody, and he wants to know, to understand what’s happened to him. I don’t understand much of it, “Who told you that?”

“The doctors...” He glances around my head at the mirror, and his voice takes on a more robotic tone, reciting words, “If you both get agitated, there shall be no progress. Keeping Elenia calm is as important as ensuring you are Mr Mellark.”

“But yet you’re the only one chained up.” That’s aimed far more at the group of people hidden behind me than the teenager sat opposite.

“You never hurt anyone.” Funny, I swear I can feel the blood coating my palms. I have to glance down, somehow assure myself that it’s just sweat, my palms are clammy and damp with nerves. I didn’t know if I was nervous of Peeta or just having to speak to him in this setting. A mix of both was less cruel than the former. “That’s not true.”

He takes a moment to catch on, and his face looks wearier than ever, “I don’t mean in the...during the games.” He sighs, having to lower his head to run his hand over his eyes, “You know what I mean.”

The cell. The Capitol. His agonising confusion had been worse than his physical rages. I struggle to remember exact moments, it’s all one blur of screaming, flashing and the snakes. The tracker venom.
“Your arm is still broken?” I’m glad he drags me away from the memories.

“Getting it off soon...Hopefully.” He nods, glancing at it until I lean further towards him, and his fingertips dance over the cool metal. “Does it still hurt?”

“No, not unless I bump it. It's just awkward.”

“Good. That’s good.” He’s nodding erratically again, muttering the word several times more and as his arms drag back I can see the thick red lines, the pressure from the tugging of the cuffs. He must be in them almost permanently and anger stabs within me, how was keeping him chained up helping him feel normal? Recover? “How is...” his attempt at small talk is almost painful, to watch him try and work out what has been deemed as acceptable, suitable for discussion, “F...Finnick.”

“He’s fine.” I answer a little too fast, Finnick was fine, and oddly that seemed like a problem in itself. But that was jealousy tugging at me. “He’s been training a lot lately so...”

“Training?” I let him cut me off, a little glad for it but hesitant of the answer I could give. He had to know little to nothing about all of that surely. Would mentioning any of it trigger the anger they all feared? I moisten my lips and watch the lines dig deep over his forehead. I sigh, recline a little, and scratch close to my elbow, “Well, Coin is training people to end the siege on the Capitol. From what Finnick says she wants a ridiculous...show team.” I can't stop a hint of resentment soaking into my tone.

“Show team.” He tastes the words. “When Snow was interviewing me, the second time, and they...they broke...”

“Beetee broke through.” I agreed, “I spoke to him a while ago.” The dryness of my mouth has reached an all time high it seems. In a moment I feel placed back in the arena again, the heat stinging the bare broken skin of my arms.

“Propaganda videos.” He’s squinting as if trying to remember again, but it suddenly breaks, a crack that shatters into a manic smile. “We’re the video. Everyone, like Snow, like the games...” It’s the link I had made initially, and the one that still bugged me whenever Cressida or anyone was near. “I bet Katniss hates that. She was never good in front of cameras.”

The normality in his voice is far more shocking than if he had exploded.

“No.” I agree, still pressing my back against the cold bars of the seat in case he may lose himself again, “But you were.”

He starts to laugh, a snigger than bubbles up to a true deep, throaty laugh. He’s still chuckling to himself, shaking his head like its some hilarious joke when I leave. I’m told two days later, when I’ve finally persuaded Finnick and my brother that I can handle the accelerated healing and am booked in for surgery, that he continued on in that manner for an hour.

The injection into my bones stung, burned deep in a way I could handle, but the nurse had been right when she said the night would be the worst. I wasn’t with Johanna that night, Katniss had pride of place beside her but she had skulked into my small room at the opposite end of the hospital, disappointed by my lack of morphling. “Oh, I forgot you’re not allowed it are you?”

“No.” I had answered through gritted teeth, whatever compound they had filled my bones with felt like a metal that was carving deeper into marrow, a hundred knives digging in unison. I asked her how Katniss was to distract myself, now that they had been placed together.

Barely conscious was the answer I got, only awake for a few minutes at a time, “The bullet didn’t even get her.” She’d spat almost reluctantly, “Fucked up spleen, cracked rib and she’s doped out of her head. We spend six weeks in Snow’s little torture chamber and they want to shove us back into reality as soon as possible.” I don’t say anything about her growing addiction to the morphling, and she leaves when my brother and Phillus appear.

“Nice to see you two are getting along.” Thom starts with a grim smile, watching my fingers writhe as I try hard to keep my face straight and the curse words in my throat. “I wouldn’t exactly say that.”

The pain fades late the next afternoon, and by the time Nurse Forror finally releases me back into Finnick’s care I’m so exhausted I don’t feign sleep, the moment I’m in the cramped bed I’m out.

How long I sleep I’m not quite sure but when I’m awake there’s a short note placed on the adjacent little table and I reach for it, the ache still fizzling in my fingers and the small spasms and jerks still there but I can grasp it and I bring it back to me, flipping over. He’s at training, Cressida is shooting something new, now that Katniss is awake she finally wants to take me up on my uncomfortable promise to appear for her, to show people that all the victors alive that last night were still so, and that we were preparing. No-one was going to rally for Johanna and I, we both knew as much.

What really sends the surge of nerves into my gut is the scrawl at the bottom of the paper, obviously written after the rest, when he was on his way out. I’m expected in control at half past three, somewhere I’ve never been but heard plenty about. I need the glass of water to try and moisten my dry mouth. I have no reason to go to control, they surely have no reason for me. Finnick hasn’t written if he’ll be there as well, and if I’m honest I’m not quite sure where the control room is.

I finally search for the time and see it illuminated on the opposite wall, it’s close to three now. It takes a few minutes to will myself up but I do it, finding an ounce of joy in being able to push my body up with both arms, even with the slight pain that still resides. The only reason I could think of Coin or Plutarch wanting me was for some sort of punishment, I’d been ignoring the schedule, not opening up much to the head doctor. I hadn’t done half of what I imagined they had expected and maybe they were as sick as everyone had to be of me leaning so heavily on Finnick, of riding on what he did.

I force myself into the bath, contemplating the shower again but not finding the drive, my stomach still an uncomfortable knot when I was clean, hair brushed into some sense of order and a proper shirt slipped on, cuffs done up and hanging over the top of my hands. When Finnick doesn’t arrive by twenty five past I realise this is just for me, something without him.

That makes my throat dry again and the knock on the door makes me jump so violently I swill water over the edge of the glass and it soaks into my trousers. I swear, trying to dab it off when whoever is out there overrides the simple DNA system and the doors opens.

“Afternoon sweetheart.”